


From Our Fathers' Houses

by Unseemingowl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jon and Sansa sibling relationship, Mentions of past sexual assault, Post Battle of The Bastards, Ramsay Bolton is dog food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-26 19:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12564792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unseemingowl/pseuds/Unseemingowl
Summary: Ramsay Bolton’s dogs were still eating when Jon was brought to the kennels, and amidst the blood and gore, the scent of Sansa's perfume lingered in the air.After retaking Winterfell, Sansa and Jon try to pick up the pieces of their legacy while the shadows to the North grows longer and a once broken dynasty is being reforged by dragonfire.





	1. Sit Awhile And Share My Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate timeline in which Sansa isn’t married to Ramsay Bolton, but still enlists Jon and the Wildlings in taking back Winterfell after a lengthy stay in the Vale and the death of Littlefinger. Combination of book and show.

Ramsay Bolton’s dogs were still eating when Jon was brought to the kennels. The slap of meat they were feeding on was still recognisable as human, but just barely. 

The smell of blood sent Ghost stamping the ground next to him, and Jon put a calm hand on his direwolf to settle him, taking in the shredded Bolton sigil and exposed ribs of the body. 

The soldier who had been sent to fetch him was very young, younger than Jon had been when he took the black. He had a smattering of downy, ginger hair on his upper lip, and he looked green around the gills at the spectacle before them. 

From the look the he was giving him, Jon had obviously been fetched there to be shocked by the savagery, and put a stopper to it. 

But as he stared at the remains of Ramsay Bolton being torn apart by his own hounds and the delight they seemed to find in devouring him, Jon didn’t find himself feeling much of anything. Neither revulsion nor joy showed on his severe, Northern face, and his lack of reaction obviously alarmed his companion, who shifted uneasily beside him. 

Finally he took pity on the fidgeting boy and asked him how it happened. 

”No one’s sure, Milord. Someone seems to have let the dogs loose while everyone was distracted with the clean up.” 

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a guard on him?” 

“That guard is passed out drunk, Milord.” 

“Well that is just a great start, isn’t it,” Jon muttered to himself. There was a throbbing in his temples. “Make him report to me in the morning.” 

“Of course, Milord.” 

Jon’s questioning was interrupted when the largest of the dogs pulled one of Bolton’s arms from its socket with a sickening, crunching pop that echoed against the walls. 

The soldier gagged, but Jon felt the rush of bloodlust the sound sent through Ghost. A firm hand on the wolf’s shoulders calmed him, but not before Jon caught the scent of something sweet and very familiar in the midst of all the gory mess, and the calming hand turned into a fist, clutching at Ghost’s snowy fur. 

“What should I do, Milord?” 

”If Tormund Giantsbane is still awake and sober, relatively sober at least, make him take a look at them, see if they can still be used for hunting, or if they should be put down.” 

”And if he’s not?” 

”Let them finish and call for him in the morning. Bolton can’t get any more dead than he already is.” 

The boy looked taken aback at Jon’s comand, still too green to know how to disguise it when orders horrified him. However he seemed equally eager to be gone from the grisly sounds and took of towards the courtyard as quickly his legs would carry him. Jon was left alone at the kennel gate to ponder the flowery smell he, and especially Ghost, had come to associate with his sister. 

He hadn’t seen Sansa since she had helped him out of his gory leathers earlier in the day, getting blood and filth all over her hands and sleeves. Once that would have made her squirm, but she had helped him clean up with a look of grim determination. 

There was no shortage of people who wanted Ramsay Bolton dead in Winterfell. Jon himself was on that list, and if Sansa hadn’t interrupted him earlier after taking the Bolton bastard down, there was a good chance he would have finished the job right there in the courtyard of Winterfell with everybody watching. Sansa however, was just as high on the list as he was, higher perhaps, and now he was wondering how much of her earlier determination had been meant for her plans for Ramsay Bolton. 

“Ghost,” he whispered, stroking his fingers through the direwolf’s white fur. “Find Sansa for me.” 

There was a smell of fire and dead things in the air as Ghost chased through the courtyards, but there was merriment too as Northmen and Wildlings drank together to celebrate their dead and that they hadn’t been amongst them. Their singing mostly drowned out the screams and moans coming from the makeshift hospital the Maester had set up in the Guards’ Hall. 

It was a homecoming of sorts, he supposed, but he felt much like a wraith the way he crept away from the celebration and the wounded and instead followed Ghost’s trot through the quiet of the keep. 

The corridor that held the old family rooms was as silent as the crypts down below, but Ghost found Sansa easily. Not that it was hard when the sound of her retching began to echo through the hallway. 

Her eyes were wide and spooked when he opened the door on her – her old room. As she wiped her mouth of sick, she looked more like a cowered animal than the proper young lady, she had tried to so hard to be over the past weeks. 

For a moment all they did was stare at one another until finally she struggled to her feet, and took the water Jon fetched for her. There was a high frantic flush in her cheeks, but the rest of her face was deathly pale. 

“Ramsay Bolton is dead.” 

“Oh?” Her hands were shaking, but it could just as easily be due to her sickness as any kind of reaction to what she had been doing before coming to her old chambers. 

“Yes, someone freed his dogs, and they’re still eating him.” 

“Well, he did say he had been starving them.” 

“Sansa.”

She looked up, but the vulnerability that had been on her face as he opened the door had gone. Her features were almost devoid of expression, her gaze blank. 

It had never been easy for him to read his eldest half sister, but the years of separation hadn’t made it any easier. 

”I've vomited after killing too,” Jon finally said, deciding to be blunt, and continued when she made no move to speak. 

“The first time it was strictly speaking not a man anymore, it was a wight. He broke into Lord Commander Mormonts chambers. It was hard to kill him. I hacked off his arm, put a lot of holes in him too and finally had to set him on fire before he went down.” 

“Did you enjoy it though? Killing him - it?” 

Her voice was small, the way she had used to speak when getting a scolding from their father when they were children. 

He hesitated in his answer, so long that he could feel Sansa’s attention turn in on herself. It was like a gulf widening between the two of them, and rather than think any more, he vaulted across it with an attempt at an explanation. 

“It’s a complicated feeling more than not. Triumph that you’re alive and that you’ve won. And I suppose that feels good, but it’s not enjoyment. At least not for me.” 

“He lied then,” she whispered and Jon saw her tightening her hold on the cape around her shoulders. 

“Who lied?” 

“The Hound. He said killing is the sweetest thing there is.” 

“Did you enjoy it, Sansa?” 

“He killed our brother, he raped Jeyne, he stole our home,” she said and then: “I wish I could kill him all over again.” 

He wasn’t sure if his question had been too sudden for her to come up with a lie, or if she just hadn’t wanted to conceal the truth of it. But there was real savagery in her voice, despite the wide eyes that followed her words. He had never heard her sound like that before. 

She meant it, and finally he finally gathered the courage to ask the question he had been holding in for weeks, ever since she had come into the courtyard at Castle Black. 

“Sansa, what happened to you in the Vale?” 

“I received a very thorough education.” 

Her voice was flat, and invited no further questions, but Jon non the less persisted.

“That’s not what I’m asking, Sansa.” 

“Ladies aren’t supposed to talk of things like that.” 

“I don’t care about that. You’re not a lady to me,” Jon interjected, trying to remain patient. “You’re my sister.” 

He couldn’t back down. It had taken so long for him to get the nerve to ask her about their years apart. If he didn’t stick with it now, he might never find it in himself to ask again. 

“Petyr never hit me, never raised a hand to me like Joffrey did. I was like a daughter to him, except on the days when I wasn’t,” her words came slowly, like she wasn’t sure of whether or not she wanted to entrust them to him. 

“On the night he poisoned Robert Arryn for the final time, he made me strip in front of the fire and lay down on the bed so he could look at me. He liked nothing as well as looking at the key to the North that he had stolen out from under other men’s noses.” 

And finally, with a voice so flat, it made Jon want to rip Petyr Baelish apart piece by little piece, the sad bottom line of it all. 

“He needed me as a maid, but there were other things he could do to me and do to himself as he watched me.” 

Ghost served as a welcome interruption, saving Jon from coming up with something poignant to say. He had no words to make it better for her. The wolf walked over to Sansa and nudged himself under her hands, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sansa buried her fingers in his thick, white fur. 

“I think it would have been easier, if I’d still had Lady. Then I wouldn’t have had such an easy time forgetting who I was.” 

“You did what you had to do.”

“Did I? Sometimes I wonder.” 

“I don’t,” Jon said, flinching as he realised he sounded a lot more brutal than he had intended. 

He had helped her take back their home, now he could shoulder some of her other burdens as well. If that wasn’t a worthy use of his new life, he didn’t know what was. 

“It was not your fault, Sansa.” 

He was almost afraid to touch her, especially given what she had just told him, but when Jon gingerly put his arm around her, Sansa melted against his side with a sigh. 

"You're so warm," she muttered. 

"I suppose that's quite an achievement for a dead man." 

The jest fell flat, but rather than widening the distance between them, his clumsy attempt at humor seemed to do the opposite. At least in the very literal sense, because Sansa curled up even tighter against his side, and put both arms around his waist. 

The little ones – Arya, Bran and Rickon – had always done that when they were children, but Sansa had stopped early on, when she was still unsteady on her legs and had far too many ribbons in her hair. Just as soon as she realised what a bastard was and that it was the reason her mother hated him. 

His hands shook when he ran his fingers through her hair, still glossy and soft despite the horror of the day. It was, he realised, one of the things he had missed the most. Even as a child she had been proud of her red locks and had liked people to admire them. Jon had. He had always loved the colour, so like her mother’s, but unlike Sansa, Lady Stark had never let him touch her hair. 

Years later, the memory of Sansa’ serious little face when she had first shied away from his tug on her braids still had the capacity to hurt. 

"I'm glad you're not dead, Jon,” she said, shaking him from his thoughts. 

"So am I," he said, only realising fully how true it was when he said it out loud. “I thought I wasn’t or at least that I didn’t care whether or not I lived or died, but I did care on the battlefield, when my own men were trampling me underfoot.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you would be alone, or dead, if I died,” Jon admitted, shrugging as best he could with Sansa’s arms still locked around him. “And father would never forgive me if I abandoned you.”

“You would be dead. Not much you could do about that,” Sansa argued, sounding far too sensible considering the grimness of their conversation. 

“Well then, he’d slap me about in the world beyond.” That startled a soft, wet laugh of out his sister, a laugh that all too soon turned to crying. 

He had never been good with tears, and he flinched when he realised that was what she was doing, her entire body shaking with it, though no sound came over her lips. 

"I'm so very sorry, Sansa. I failed all of you,” he whispered, hugging her closer to him with far too much force. 

He felt her bones, fragile like a bird’s under his grip, but she squeezed back just as fiercely. Her breathing sounded far too loud in the quiet of the room. 

"You did not. You are here with me in our home,” and then, fisting her fingers in his jerkin, she added,

”It’s not your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might turn this into a series as a sort of kinda rewrite of season 7. So keep your eyes open if you liked this.
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://unseemingowl.tumblr.com/). Come and say hi.


	2. What World Is This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had taken back their father's house, but in their home, victory now lived alongside ghosts of all kinds.

Before Sansa Stark, Brienne had not been a subtle creature. 

Years of ridicule for her appearance and her chosen profession had taught the dour faced lady knight to steel her jaw and meet the japes with a blank stare to be sure. Still, she had not taken easily to the subterfuges of court life that serving her lady required. 

However, Sansa was a patient mistress, and while her honourable companion was never going to proficient at deception, months spent in her company had rubbed off on Brienne.

Under the scrutiny of noblemen, commoners and soldiers alike, Sansa had taught her how to use that blank stare to her own advantage. How to carry out the most secret of conversations hidden in plain sight.

So when Brienne, carefully disinterested, said, “You seem to have picked up a shadow, My Lady,” Sansa knew to pay immediate attention. 

“What was that, Brienne?” 

“To your left, by the tower gate. She has been following us since we left the great hall.” 

Sansa brushed an errant strand of red hair out of her face, before looking up from the missive in her hands. Her features were the same variant of indifference as Brienne’s voice, but her blue eyes sharp. 

The courtyard was alive with noise and activity – soldiers yelling, horses whinnying and the sound of hammers and steel ringing against the wall, but Brienne was right. There was someone watching them. Intense in a way all the curious glances from the soldiers and common folk wasn’t. 

The onlooker was swaddled up tight against the snowfall, face all but hidden behind cape and scarves, but Sansa recognised the form almost immediately all the same, suppressing a flinch as she did. 

“Jeyne Poole.” 

“Bolton’s wife - widow?” Brienne’s face was still calm, but Sansa could see the worry in the other woman’s startling, blue eyes. 

“The very same.” 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me, I’m sure,” Sansa said, a tad more snappish than strictly necessary, the sudden tangle of nerves making her tongue sharper. 

“Why is she following us? Should I consider her a risk?” 

Brienne’s brows had kinked into a frown as she watched Jeyne, who, judging by the sudden hunch in her shoulders, was aware she had been found out. Sansa’s immediate reaction was to deny it, but she did her sworn shield the courtesy to consider the question properly. 

“I don’t think so, no. She’s become a little…” trailing of, unable to find the words, she took a different route. “I’m not sure what I – we – can do for her.” 

As if prompted, Jeyne began to wander off. No one seemed to look directly at her, and the shock of the scars that Ramsay had given her were hidden by the shawls anyways, but everyone gave her a wide berth all the same without even realising it. 

“Perhaps she needs to be given a task, My Lady?”

“She was abused by Ramsay, I think she’s earned her rest.” 

“But rest won’t return her life to her. You didn’t rest after what happened to you in the Vale. You worked, you fought. Perhaps Jeyne Poole needs that opportunity as well,” Brienne argued, making Sansa pause for another moment to watch the retreating form of her old friend as she disappeared into the castle. 

But there was no time in her thoughts for Jeyne that day. Just as there had been no time for her the day before, or the day before that. 

Roose Bolton had made starts to rebuild Winterfell, but his son had been too preoccupied with his rapes and his torture to follow through on his father’s labours. Winterfell was still a ruin, broken roofs yawning towards the sky, and the cold was coming. 

Her years in the Vale had prepared for the run of a great keep, but none of Petyr Baelish’s lessons had prepared her for how to manage the rebuilding of a ruin. 

Neither had it prepared her for how to entertain men who spent their days cleaning up the battlefield and burning the bodies of their friends and allies. 

The blaze from the pyres followed her, even after the glow of them against the lead grey skies had disappeared. They painted her already troubled dreams a sickly orange, and so the stench of death and ashes followed her as she picked up the responsibilities meant for the Lady of Winterfell. 

It was a constant reminder that Winterfell no longer was the haven she had hoped for. Despite her brother and despite Brienne’s friendship. It was being pulled in every direction at once, constant scrutiny from the people of the castle and the gathering noblemen and cold and lonely nights in her parents’ old bed pondering the ghosts of her old home.

As all the nights before, her feet and her head were throbbing in unison when she made it to her last stop for the day, the infirmary. The makeshift hospital that Maester Wolkan had assembled after the battle was still filled to the brim, and the old man was the only one at Winterfell who looked more tired than Sansa felt. 

He was still working. The frown on his melancholic, bearded face deepened as he took the pulse on one of the soldiers – a Mormont as far as Sansa remembered. 

“How is he?” Sansa quizzed, waving away Wolkan’s attempts at bowing – he already looked ready to keel over in exhaustion. 

“Poorly, my Lady. If his fever doesn’t improve soon, I’m afraid I’m going to have to set the leg of.” 

Sansa sighed. The soldier was strong and broad shouldered, although the battle against his wounds had stolen most of that strength judging from the hollow, gaunt look to his face. He had lived though, which was more than could be said for many of Little Lyanna Mormont’s men.

“When was the last time you slept, Maester Wolkan?” 

“I could ask you the same thing, My Lady,” the maester shot back. 

“Yes, well, when I don’t sleep I’m not at risk for taking someone’s leg of.” 

“No, there’s just the risk of causing a diplomatic crisis,” he said, not without some amusement, as he peeled back the soldier’s bandage with a sticky, wet sound. 

Sansa grimaced at the sight of the gnarled, oozy flesh underneath, and looked away only to spot Jeyne ducking through the door. Apparently having taken up following Sansa around like a shadow once again. Although she was now inside, she didn’t remove the scarf wrapped tight around the lower half of her face. 

“Well, Maester Wolkan, if you won’t sleep, you have to eat at least,” she said, ignoring the growl in her own stomach at the thought of food. 

Remembering Brienne’s words from previously, she shot a glance towards Jeyne, who was wide-eyed as she watched the jerk in the man’s limbs as Wolkan carefully tested the feel of the flesh around the wounds. 

“I’ll fetch you some stew and Jeyne will help you with the bandage, won’t you Jeyne?” 

Her shadow jumped at being addressed so directly, but obeyed her command all the same, scuttling towards them with a muttered ‘yes, My Lady.” 

When Sansa returned, Maester Wolkan was securing the fresh bandage and Jeyne was wiping blood of her hands. He took the stew gratefully and went of in search of a quiet spot to eat and hopefully sneak a catnap, if he knew what was good for him. 

Cradling the bowl of broth she’d brought for the soldier, Sansa sat down on the edge of the bed. The soldier was mumbling and sweaty from his fever, eyes dancing about wildly under the delicate skin of his eyelids. 

“You want to try?” Sansa quizzed, holding the bowl of broth out towards Jeyne.  
Sansa knew the scarf served as a disguise for Jeyne’s scars, but it was also like a beacon for her eyes. Against the green fabric, they were wide and dark, and so very easily readable. The apprehension was very clear, but then she steeled herself and took Sansa’s place on the bed.

The soldier was barely conscious, but Jeyne managed to get the broth in him, slowly and carefully, supported by a gentle hand under his head. Only the slight hunch in her shoulders gave any indication that she knew that Sansa had remained, rather than heading back to the main hall. 

“I could put you under Maester Wolkan’s tutelage,” Sansa stilled her shaking hands on the blankets, before continuing, “Have him teach you how to be a proper nurse.” 

Jeyne froze, the spooked look back in her eyes as she looked up. “Is that an order, My Lady?” 

“No, of course not, Jeyne. It’s an offer, but we could use the extra hands, and your help would be most appreciated.” 

It was quiet for a long time and as each breath passed, the world seem to narrow around them until it was only her, Jeyne and the wounded soldier between them. 

“I don’t much care for being around men anymore.” 

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine – staring into Jeyne’s swaddled face, it suddenly felt like she was looking into a warped mirror of her own position. The feeling urged her to reach across the blankets and grabbing one of Jeyne’s skinny hands in her own. 

“I know Jeyne. Trust me, I know, but you are not without protection now. No man will break you as long as I am here.” 

“I appreciate that promise, My Lady, but have you considered that you might not be in a position to protect me, or that you will have to go elsewhere?” 

The years had taught Sansa to roll with the punches. It was the only reason she was able to keep her expression from curling in on itself at the implication in Jeyne’s words. Her old friend might not have spoken Jon’s name, but the issue of his possible succession and an upcoming marriage and dispatchment for Sansa was non-the less clear in what she wasn’t saying outright. 

It wasn’t as if Sansa hadn’t already heard the whispers, seen it in the calculating way the Northern Lords looked at her brother – at her too, when they thought she didn’t notice. 

Under their stares she had stripped herself of all Southern finery and style – kept her plaits simple and her dress in severe Stark greys. Yet next to Jon she would always look like her mother’s daughter, not her father’s. 

She smiled thinly – feeling the overbearingness stretch across her face – before she replied. 

“And you think Jon will not protect you as thoroughly as I would should that be the case?” 

“He has no reason to. I was not nice to him when we were children.”

“Neither was I, and yet look at what he has helped me accomplish.” 

“Or what you helped him accomplish,” as soon as she had said it, Jeyne clapped a hand over her mouth, for all that it was already covered, eyes widening once more. 

A pounding had started up behind Sansa’s eyes, and her tongue felt suddenly thick and unmanageable. She knew Jeyne’s suspicions could not go unaddressed, but she didn’t want to ruin the frailty of their renewed connection with falseness either. 

“If you do not trust Jon’s intentions, trust mine at least. But neither of us will leave you stranded.” 

“Sansa,” she nearly jumped out of her skin, at the sound of Jon’s voice. Jeyne across from her did the same, shying away from the bed. 

“What is it, Jon?” Sansa said as lightly as possible, hoping to the old gods and the new that her brother hadn’t heard them. 

“Lord Glover has arrived with his men.” 

As soon as she got to her feet the pounding in her head worsened, and the floor tilted under her feet. Only Jon quickly darting forward prevented her from falling over. 

“Sansa, are you ill?” 

“I’m fine Jon,” she sighed, blinking rapidly to make his face come into focus. 

When it did, his eyes were wide with alarm. 

“How long have you been here?” He barrelled on, ignoring her assurances. “Have you eaten anything?” 

“She hasn’t, haven’t had time to rest either.” 

Jeyne had gotten to her feet as well, eyes wary as she looked at Jon and Sansa. With a quick ‘my lady, my lord’ and a sloppy curtsey, she hurried from the room, almost seeming to melt into the shadows in her haste to get out of the way. 

“Right then, hang Lord Glover. Let’s get some food in you. You can receive him properly tomorrow when you’re not dead on your feet.”

“But you’ve met him, haven’t you?” he nodded. “Then it’s not proper that I don’t meet with him too.” 

“It isn’t proper falling asleep on your plate in front of the Northern Lords either,” Jon joked, but the grip on her arm was firm. 

“No, Sansa,” he said as soon as she opened her mouth again. “I’m going to insist.” 

Finally she took a proper look at him – judging from the lines on his face, she wasn’t the only one who was burning the candle at both ends. He looked almost as tired as she felt, but smiled when she finally nodded, and tucked her arm under his as he led her outside, Ghost padding along beside them. 

Her brother seemed aged when they reached her solar and he dropped into one of the chairs by the fire. Even more so than when they had reunited at the Wall. It seemed leadership put more years on his face than dying did. 

Or perhaps he really had overheard her and Jeyne’s conversation even though he hadn’t made any remarks on it. 

Bathed in the light from the fire, Jon’s severe face gave nothing away, and Sansa sighed, shedding her heavy cloak before settling with Ghost who had splayed himself by the fire, belly turned towards the flames. 

Rather than thrusting her and Jon further apart as Sansa had feared, her confession after the battle had seemed to bring them closer together. The skittish, gruff affection he treated her with was now peppered with awkward jokes and steadying hands, a softer intimacy that was alien, yet welcome. 

He hadn’t returned the favour though. 

While she had given him her most shameful secrets, he still kept her at arm’s length. With the power void in the household, it left her feeling uneven footed, despite all of his bumbling gentility.

Especially now when it at long last had to be addressed. Her conversation with Jeyne had made that very clear. 

But before she could decide on a mode of attack, Jon made the first strike. 

“Davos tells me that the assembled Northern Lords have started to grumble about the line of succession.” 

“That is to be expected, I suppose,” she muttered, scratching Ghost’s fluffy ears. 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jon staring at her, but she kept her gaze on the hearth refusing to offer too much of an answer too soon. Especially considering how she had seen Davos kissing up to the Northern Lords trickling into the castle. 

“There is plenty of support for you, Sansa, and Yohn Royce is busy singing your praises of your conduct in the Vale at every chance he gets.” 

She grimaced. Of course he was, but Bronze Yohn was a different problem for a different time - one that couldn’t be solved before the question of succession was dealt with. 

“Plenty yes, but maybe not enough. You are the hero of the Battle of Winterfell, the lords and soldiers alike admire you.” 

Finally she looked at him, just in time to see him flinch at her words. 

“You are his last trueborn child.”

It wasn’t a proper answer. Especially not coming from a man who looked at times almost alarmingly like their father. In particular at moments like this when he was at his most guarded. 

With a face like that it didn’t matter that he didn’t have the auburn curls and easy manner of their heroic brother. A white wolf rather than a young wolf might just be enough to inspire the necessary confidence in the Stark name among the Northern Lords once more. 

“That might not be enough, Jon. Too many who knew me are gone now, and those remaining might not remember the right material for a mistress.” 

“You’ve done nothing but work to prove your capabilities during the campaign. Everyone can see that.” 

“Jon. Please do me the courtesy to not pretend you don’t have ambitions of your own.” 

Sansa realised she had picked up her courtly tone with him - the voice that Joffrey, Cersei, Tyrion and especially Littlefinger had forced her to develop. She had to suppress a wince at hearing it here, in her private solar with her brother looking at her like she had suddenly grown a second head. 

“And please do me the courtesy of not assuming that my own ambitions would ever come at the expense of you.” 

When he glanced at her, there was a naked, shattered look in his grey eyes, one that made her feel small and malignant. 

“I’m not questioning your honour, Jon,” she whispered, reaching for him, but only catching onto the edge of his sleeve when he shifted in his chair. “I cannot be unmoored anymore, I need to know what I shall prepare for.” 

“You really want it then?” 

“Will you think less of me if I say yes?” She quizzed, well aware of the distaste their father had always had for those who sought out power. But Jon, base born as he was, would have to have some sympathy for that desire. 

“No,” his voice was very soft and he seemed to turn the words over in his mouth before continuing. “I can guess what it would mean to you.” 

“But do you trust me to do it well?” 

His hesitation was no more than expected. She would probably have despised him if he had been quick to answer, but it still smarted. Before the night of her confession she had not cared much for whether or not he would approve of her control. Now the idea of taking charge of the Stark name without Jon’s backing seemed distasteful, and not just because his backing would most likely be necessary for the other Northern lords to support her. 

“You’re young, but so was Robb and so was I,” he looked at her thoughtfully, lips curling with that grim humor he had developed in their time apart. “But you managed not to die, so I suppose that puts you a step ahead of us.” 

“With you by side,” this time he didn’t flinch away when she reached for him, his hand meeting her halfway as he laced his fingers with hers. The relief of it made Sansa feel light as a feather. 

“Until the end of the line, sis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm heading out blind here. I have a clear idea of where I want the story to go, but I can't rightly say that I will update regularly or frequently. Sorry.
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://unseemingowl.tumblr.com/). Come and say hi.


	3. We Are Ascended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you scared?” he asked her on the morning that Alys Karstark finally rode into Winterfell with her guardian and remaining retinue. The final piece of the puzzle for the Northern council to begin. 
> 
> “I probably look like Alys Karstark on the inside,” she confessed.

Letting go of Winterfell was easier than Jon had anticipated. 

He has expected disappointment, and it was there, a hard lump of it in throat, but as he walked off the shock of his confrontation with Sansa, there was relief too. Like he had been spared from a killing blow, and it made him almost as light on his feet as Ghost who chased after him through the castle. 

No one would have objected of course, he knew that much. Most of them would probably have welcomed it. South of Castle Black his record wasn’t marred by the same suspicion that had clung to him during his time in the Night’s Watch. He had seen the trust in their faces before the battle and heard it Davos’ muttered praises to the Northern lords. 

In Winterfell, the wariness didn’t settle with the former Lord Commander, the man who had travelled north of the wall and fought off the wildlings and led the charge on Bolton’s army. Instead it had settled on the former Lady Lannister, Littlefinger’s ward. 

It had been a good dream for a while. Taking his father’s seat, carrying on his legacy, but when Jon had looked at Sansa as she said her piece, he could see Catelyn Stark stare at him through his sister’s Tully blue eyes. He could see the ghost of his father’s wife waiting for him to do exactly what she had always feared he would. 

And so he had let it pass him by and the weight of Lady Catelyn’s scorn had diminished. A dream it would remain, tucked into the same drawer as his boyhood fantasies of being accepted as a proper son of his father and Lady Stark. 

Though still jittery with nerves, Jon made himself stop by Davos Seaworth’s door on his third loop past it when seemed Ghost finally seemed to have lost his patience and pressed his cold snout into the cup of his hand. 

The old knight was eating when Jon entered, mouth stuffed, but rather than look surprised when Jon announced his intentions as soon as stepping inside, the old knight rolled his eyes. 

“I’m beginning to believe Stannis on you Starks, never make it easy for anyone, do you?” he scoffed as soon as he’d swallowed. 

“Well Sansa is the only Stark here.” 

“That is not true, and you know it. Your sister knows it too. She’d barely been with you a day before she began trying to deck you out in Stark colours.” 

“Doesn’t matter, Winterfell is still hers, I won’t take it from her.” 

Davos sighed, leaning back in his chair and looked at Jon until he had to start pacing again, Ghost remained still, watching the both of them with pricked ears from his place by the fire. 

“What is the problem, do you disapprove of her? You object to serving a woman?” 

“Of course not, your sister is a fine woman, Jon, but she is a harder sell. She’s not the hero of the battlefield who killed off the Bolton menace,” Davos said, tugging at his salt and pepper beard, words measured and calm despite his obvious frustration. 

“That is ridiculous. She was the one who brought us the Eyrie. She started the uprising.”

“I know that, you know that, even they know that, but she’s also the girl who’ve lived under the influence of the Lannisters and Littlefinger. That’s not exactly something to inspire confidence.

“But they will never have to fear that she will bend to Cersei Lannister,” Jon objected. 

“It’s not like they would fear that with you at the helm either.” 

“I’m not going to change my mind Davos.” 

“Not a Stark indeed,” Davos said with a mirthless chuckle, taking another gulp of beer. 

“My sister will make an excellent leader.” 

“Well, she is certainly less hot headed than some,” the knight remarked with no shortage of irony, obviously struggling not to waggle his eyebrows. “Aye, she will make a fine warden I’m sure, and bring down the combined wrath of the Lannisters down on our heads.” 

“Sansa knows Cersei better than anyone. You think you can calculate any risk from her that Sansa hasn’t already considered herself?” 

That appeared to finally stump Davos. As Stannis Baratheon’s right hand, he had had plenty of opportunity to observe Cersei Lannister’s behaviour, but Sansa’s intimate acquaintance with the Lannister Queen and her viciousness was not a point he could counter. 

“I want you to put your considerable talents for persuasion into singing Sansa’s praises. Not mine.” Jon hesitated before adding, with more sharpness behind the words. “If you cannot do that, what is the point of you?” 

For a moment he was afraid he had gone too far – Stannis’ former right hand man was deferential, not a pushover – but Davos’ gaze softened almost as quickly as it narrowed, looking Jon over before giving a half bow from his seated position. 

“I said a hard sell, not an impossible one. I shall begin first thing tomorrow. 

Jon didn’t hear what sweet words Davos dripped in the ears of the Northerners who arrived in Winterfell to answer the summons he and Sansa had sent out, but spotted the knight flittering from lord to lord, and he felt the influence of his words change the air around Sansa. There was a new keenness in their gazes, as they looked Sansa over when she worked with the castle’s occupants, a valuation that wasn’t just related to his sister’s pretty face and the way her auburn hair caught the pale winter sun when she passed through the muddy inner courtyard. 

Jon himself made every effort to defer to her in public, saving their disagreements for their talks in front of her fireplace. As Sansa began to feel Davos’ magic in the way people stared at her, he was invited too and Brienne moved away from her guard position by the door to awkwardly balance in one of Lady Catelyn’s lounge chairs. Even with the two of them there, they were still dwarfed by the room that was intended for a large family, not just an odd set of siblings and their closest advisors making plans. 

“Are you scared?” Davos asked her on the morning that Alys Karstark finally rode into Winterfell with her guardian and remaining retinue. The final piece of the puzzle for the Northern council to begin. 

“I probably look like Alys Karstark on the inside,” Sansa muttered as they all glanced at the Karstark heir made helplessly plain in her obvious terror upon dismounting under the weight of so much disapproval. 

“Good, then you’re not an idiot.” 

Sansa’s lips twitched at his jape, and to Jon’s relief the twitch bloomed into a proper, albeit weak smile, bringing some life into her schooled expression. She obviously still didn’t trust Davos – the remarks she saved for after his departure at night made that clear, but Jon was grateful to see her work together with the old knight. Not the least because Jon saw how it made Davos’ distrust of her loosen up too. 

“Though you have to be ready to step in if it all goes wrong tonight,” she added to Jon, pulling him into the conversation. 

“It won’t.” 

“Jon!” There was a clear warning in her words, bringing on a sigh from Jon and a smirk from Davos. 

“Until the end of the line, remember?” 

Rather than answer, Sansa kissed his cheek before heading down the walkway, Brienne’s hulking shadow joining her as she disappeared around the corner. 

Now that he had refused the responsibility – had spent hours rationalising that refusal – Jon found he really didn’t want it anymore. The very thought of being forced to take it was enough to send him prowling along the grounds, leaving Davos to make the final preparations for the first night of the council. 

Whatever she had been doing didn’t appear to have worked to calm her nerves neither. As he saw her again later that day, some of that perfect, courtly composure had slipped, leaving her wild eyed and pacing in anteroom behind the great hall when he joined her. 

“Nice dress,” he remarked, nodding towards the sweep of the heavy woollen skirts around Sansa’s legs. 

It got the reaction he had hoped for – a small smile, a pause in her fidgeting. 

“As if you’d be able to tell,” she scoffed and then giving him a critical once over before adding. “You’ve yet to wear the things I’ve made for you.” 

Before Jon could reply, Davos joined them, looking calm despite the ever-deepening lines in his brow. Apparently he noticed something about Sansa's attire that Jon did not, because as he looked her over, the frown softened a little. 

"Nice touch with the colours, my Lady."

Only then did Jon realise that she was all in white and greys, rather than the blue hues that she usually favoured. Dark grey dress, white wolves leaping on her collar and across her breast. 

“You are both ready then?”

Jon looked to Sansa, who gave a grim nod, hands fidgeting again. Her face had once more taken on the mask like quality that was so impressive and unsettling all at the same time. He resisted the urge to tell her to smile, although it would have made her look more approachable, more welcoming to the Northern lords. Having spent so many months with her now, he recognised her need for that particular masquerade. 

"Stop fidgeting," he muttered instead, gently putting his hand on hers. 

She jumped slightly under his touch, but then immediately laced her fingers with his, squeezing quickly before stepping into the hall, leaving Jon to hasten after her. 

The noise dimmed as they came inside, every single face in the hall turning towards them. Each grim faced Northerner was seated shoulder to shoulder at the long tables and the smell of wet wool and stale ale was thick in the air - somehow the hall seemed smaller, the ceiling weighing down on them as Jon made a big production out of helping Sansa to her seat. The Lord’s, not the Lady’s chair, although unlike most other castles, there wasn’t a difference in their size and cut at Winterfell. 

"Welcome to Winterfell my lords, my ladies." Sansa’s smile was nervous, although Jon doubted few beyond him and Brienne could see how wobbly it really was. "Thank you all for making the journey here, we have much to discuss.” 

The words were barely out of her mouth before a young man leapt to his feet. 

“I for one would like to know why we have to suffer the wildlings here.”

The speaker was red in the face, as if he’d been holding the words in for too long. With his hawkish nose and heavy brows, Jon recognised him vaguely from before the war. A Ryswell boy he and Robb had trained with when Lord Ryswell had visited his father many years ago. 

“The freefolk,” Sansa began, and Jon saw a muscle work in her cheek when a displeased mutter rose from some in the hall at the use of the wildlings own name for themselves. “Are not going anywhere.” 

“You mean to have us accept the wildling invaders as permanent residents here?”

“We didn’t invade, we were invited,” Tormund was seated to the far side of the hall, but his voice carried easily enough, as did the authority behind the words. 

But apparently it didn’t face the Ryswell man. 

“Not by me.” 

“Well, they came to the aid of my brother and I when House Ryswell remained silent,” Sansa’s voice was icy and a loaded hush settled instead, the Ryswell man flinching under the whip of Sansa’s reprimand. 

Surprisingly it was Lord Royce who spoke next and broke the awkward silence. His air of pompousness a welcome balm after the steel in Sansa’s words. 

“I understand your reluctance Ser Ryswell. The wildlings are not like us, but the wildlings have proved themselves to be valuable allies on the battlefield.” 

“All fought bravely, Northmen, freefolk and our allies from the Vale,” Sansa broke in. “We all fought together and we won against the usurper Ramsay Bolton.” 

“What does it all matter now,” another Northman got to his feet, this time one of Lord Manderly’s sons. “As you say, Lady Stark, the war is over. Winter has come. If the maesters are right it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storm.” 

That was a terrible idea, if Jon had ever heard one. Even if the threat of the White Walkers hadn’t been imminent, grudges like those of the Ryswell fighter would fester over the winter and come spring everyone would be ready to beat on each other again. 

Momentarily forgetting the strategy he’d laid with Davos and Sansa, Jon leaned forward in his seat. 

“The war is not over, and I promise you, friend, the enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he caught the glare that Sansa sent him as the low murmur rose drastically in volume and he resisted the urge to keep dismissing the suit for a peaceful winter. Leaving room for her to talk again, which she promptly did. 

“You have all heard the reports of what has awoken in the deep North. Don’t pretend otherwise. My brother and the Nights Watch have seen the dead walking and the freefolk have too. It’s why they have fled and why we welcomed them. As much as we need a peaceful winter, there isn’t one in store for us and we need every single able bodied fighters if we are going to hope to survive until spring. That includes the freefolk.” 

The uncertainty had disappeared from Sansa’s voice. The more she spoke, the greater her beauty and the steelier the set of her jaw. For the first time she didn’t just look like her mother, but like their father too as she made the men listen to her. 

“We are northerners here. We face what we know to be true, and don’t simply look the other way as the battle moves closer.”

“And do you mean to lead us, Lady Stark? On the battlefield against the monsters like your great lady knight there?” Lord Cerwyn said, nodding towards Brienne’s broad shouldered form a few seats over. 

A barely audible smattering of laughter vibrated through the assembly and Jon tensed next to her, but Sansa dug her nails into the back of his hand

“I’m not much of a swordfighter, Lord Cerwyn, but should it come to it, I would defend the North against invaders with whatever means necessary, just the same as you,” she said, voice steady, although from the slope in her shoulders, Jon could tell some of the boldness had leaked out of her posture again. 

Ignoring the warning in the pinch of Sansa’s fingers, Jon brushed them aside and got to his feet. 

"Sansa was the one who rode North to find me, convinced me that we could win the fight against the Boltons. That the Northern lords would still respect the name of Stark," Jon continued. 

There were more than a few flinches around the room from lords who hadn't answered the call, the loud mouthed Ryswell among them, but Jon ignored them. Letting them stew in their own shame he focused on the faces he knew to win their backing. Lord Hornwood's thoughtful nodding, Lord Mazin's open respect. 

“I know that there have been many discussions on the order of succession within House Stark. Many of you have been kind enough to suggest I should take up the mantle after my father since I commanded the battle,“ he said and the tension eased into an expectant hush rather than a shamed one. 

“But I am bastard born. The Lady Sansa is the oldest, trueborn child of my father still living. The North belongs to her.”

Encouraged by the affirmative murmurs, too low to make out the words, Jon continued, swallowing round the sudden lump in his throat. He could do this, he could turn the tide here, win them for Sansa as Sam has once won the Night’s watch for him. 

“I hear people say that she is a Lannister and that she was their puppet. I say that she has learned all their tricks and ruses, learned how to outsmart them and saw the entirety of King’s Landing under siege. She outmanoeuvred the mastermind behind the war of the five kings, the reason we are in this mess, brought him to justice." 

At this, Bronze Yohn rose from his seat, puffing up with the same air of high minded gravitas that worked a lot better further South, but thankfully still bore some weight in the North. 

"The Vale rode North for Sansa Stark's claim, and we would happily support it still," he turned half, bowing in her direction. "We have been proud to name you ally, my Lady," 

The murmur rose, taking on a more obvious, positive tone as Sansa gave her first proper smile, nodding graciously towards the Vale Knight and more importantly the backing of his several thousand troops. 

"I fought to win Winterfell for my sister, not myself. I am happy to serve her," Jon finally added, speaking directly to Lyanna Mormont’s serious little face just as Davos had urged him to. 

Just as they had hoped, the Lady of Bear Island was the first to get to her feet as the mutters turned into a loud buzz of chatter, her childish soprano cutting right through the din. 

"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding Lord Manderly, but you refused the call. You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call. And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton, and here you stand making jokes at the expense of Ned Stark's only daughter.” 

A hectic flush rose in her cheeks along with the volume in her voice. 

“But House Mormont remembers! The North remembers! We know no king, but the king in the North, whose name is Stark, but where does it say it can't be a queen?" she asked, and Jon once again marvelled at the authority the tiny waif of a girl was able to muster in front of the burly, tough men left in the North. 

"I don't care that Sansa Stark is a woman. None of you would dare suggest that I cannot carry the responsibility for my house because of my sex," she said, face pinched in a manner that promised an ill fate for anyone who would dare to refute that claim. 

"I say that Sansa Stark deserves that same respect afforded to me. As Ned Stark’s daughter and as a woman in her own right. Make us remember what honour means.”

It was quiet for a long, breathless moment afterwards and Jon clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles creaked and turned white. Sansa’s face once again a mask as she breathed in once, twice. 

Finally Lord Manderly got to his feet. 

“Lady Mormont speaks harshly, but truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the young wolf. I didn't think we'd find another king in our lifetime. I didn't commit my men to your cause, Lady Stark, because I didn't want anymore Manderlys dying for nothing," 

Jon caught Sansa leaning forward in her chair, the bravado squaring off her shoulders again, and Lord Manderly’s voice seemed to grow stronger under the power of her gaze as he began addressing the rest of his peers. 

"It's true that it was Jon Snow who avenged the Red Wedding on the battlefield, but it was Sansa Stark who forced us back together again, all the scattered pieces of the North. She is the she wolf of House Stark, a worthy queen in the North." 

Barely a beat went by before Lord Glover got to his feet, and it was hard to recognise the man who had once sneered at Sansa in his apologetic, hang dog face. 

"I did not fight for your cause and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he is wrong and ask forgiveness." 

"There is nothing to forgive, my Lord,” Sansa said, and Lord Glover’s face went soft with relief before he spoke again. 

"If there will be more fights to come, House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years, and I will stand behind Ned Stark's daughter." 

Pulling his sword, he knelt next to Lord Lord Manderly. 

"I will fight for the she wolf" 

Their vote of confidence seemed to set off a chain reaction, and the earlier laughing tide turned so quickly that Jon could barely keep up. One by one the somber faced lords got to their feet, the sound of drawn steel echoing against the high ceiling of the hall. Jon caught a glimpse of Davos looking entirely too smug when he got to his feet as well, and Brienne glowing like a sun as the Northern lords and ladies proclaimed Sansa queen. 

“She wolf!” someone suddenly cried, Jon didn’t see whom, but the chorus soon reverberated through them all. 

They were reclaiming her, Jon realised with a jolt as he pulled his own sword and judging from the delighted look on Sansa’s face, she realised it too. 

Someone added a howl to the cheers, Jon was pretty sure it was Tormund, and more followed. Sansa laughed then, and this time her fidgeting seemed endearing rather than unsure. 

Finally Jon handed her a mug of ale and Sansa raised it high above her head. The howls and cheers grew louder until the very walls of the keep seemed to vibrate with it, and then breaking with laughter when Sansa tipped back the contents. 

“I promise…” she wavered for a second, but vaulted forward once more when Jon pinched her leg under the table, digging his nails in hard. 

“I promise to honour your trust and to return loyalty with fierceness and strength. To stand against the storm along side you, because I am my father’s daughter and I am not afraid of anything.” 

“To Ned Stark!” Someone yelled, and for the first time since his father’s death, Jon didn’t feel sad at the mention of Ned. Finally his name was being said as it should be, as a celebration, not a curse or a lament. 

“We’ll drink to his memory tonight my lords, my ladies,” Sansa said and glanced meaningfully at Davos, who headed off to let in the musicians. “Tomorrow the real work begins.” 

She was trembling when she stepped away from the high table to converse with the lords and ladies, but smiled widely as well. Jon suspected he would remember the sight of her, a pale and red figure against the backdrop of her darkly attired bannermen, before she disappeared among them, for a very long time. 

He drifted for a while, drinking the beer fetched up from the cellar as he received the hesitant congratulations from the northern lords, more than a few of them obviously testing him to see if he really did back Sansa and didn’t want the kingship himself. Jon was only too happy to correct their suspicions, smiling and deferring their praises onto his sister until they left him alone. 

For a moment he stood unmoving before he was finally shook from his reverie by Tormonds gravelly voice. 

"Your sister is one hell of a woman, Jon.” 

"Don't even think about it," Jon snapped, which only drew an uproariously laughter from Tormund. 

"Well I can't help thinking of it a bit, Jon. All that lovely red hair to match my own, but she's probably much too fearsome for a man like me, I like her big lady friend better. I can easily and happily deal with a proper wrestle on the pelts. I'd be too scared what clever nasties a woman like your sister would put me through. I'd wake up without my pecker one day to find her wearing it round her neck." 

Jon made the mistake of taking a drink as Tormund ranted, and then nearly choked at that last mental image, laughing and heaving as Tormund tried to thump the ale from his lungs. 

Their little scene seemed barely to warrant any attention. It appeared the whole assembly had taken Sansa’s words to heart, and with the matter of succession over and done with, the whole room seemed bigger with the relief of it. 

There weren’t room for any sceptics on a night like this. And he had to admit that Brienne looked more approachable as well, smiling and obviously pleased with the results as she talked to Davos a few tables down. 

“Brienne isn’t a wildling girl, I don’t think she would like being manhandled. She would hit you if you tried,” Jon finally said as he could breathe normally again. 

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he remarked, waggling his eyebrows before refilling his ale horn. “Though I’d best find out if she’d like me to spank her back.” 

Tipping his horn in salute, Tormund walked off in direction of Brienne while Jon looked on, part fascinated, part dumbfounded. 

“What’s that look on your face, Jon?” 

Sansa had joined him again, a flush in her cheeks, and Jon nearly jumped out of his skin, feeling almost as if he’d been caught peeping at something he shouldn’t. 

“Watching Tormund Giantsbane trying to woo your sworn shield.” 

Sansa’s jaw dropped, head swivelling in the direction he nodded so quickly he could hear the crick in her neck. And Jon grinned widely at the sound. 

“He likes big women,” Jon supplied as Sansa just kept staring without saying anything. 

“Well, I hope he won’t mind it if she sends him on his rear end.” 

“He will probably like it to be honest.” 

Sansa giggled and for a moment it was as if all the years had melted away, and they were kids again, sniggering at the girls who tried to win Robb’s favours. One of the few things they had been able to share once Sansa had begun to be half-curious, half-disgusted at the idea of marriage and Jon’s non-existent prospects of one had made him spiteful of the concept. 

“Your mother and father would be very proud of you today, you know,” he said when she stopped, and her face softened when she looked up at him. Not her mother’s priggish child anymore, but a sister who gave her affection without censure. 

“Father would be proud of you too,” she said, wisely leaving her mother out of the equation, but for once it didn’t sting. 

He had proven her wrong after all, perhaps that would finally take away her power to shame him, even from beyond the grave. 

“Gods, what have I gotten myself into,” she said, shaking her head, smile and elation gone in favour of an expression that Jon could best describe as dazed. 

“You’ll do great,” he assured her, although he felt no less overwhelmed than his sister probably did. 

“I know you already promised once, but you won’t go anywhere, will you, Jon?” 

Giddy with relief at what they had accomplished, his tongue had apparently loosened, because before he realised what he was saying, he was blurting out a joke far bawdier than his usual jests with Sansa. 

“I’ll stick around. Unless you wish to offer me to Cersei Lannister to warm her bed.” 

Sansa choked on her wine, no dignity in sight and all of a sudden Jon was laughing. 

“Seven hells, Jon, are you developing a sense of humour?” 

“Why, you think I would serve better as a jester than as commander of your forces?” 

“One scandalous joke doesn’t make you a jester,” Sansa chuckled before lighting up in a grin so wide that she reminded him of Arya for a second. “Although maybe I should send you South, I would give anything to have someone in the room to tell me what she looks like when she hears of what happened here today.” 

“I could put the exchange to verse perhaps? You want it in song or as a poem?” 

“Poem certainly, you’re hardly a singer.” 

He could have said that he would be needed in Winterfell in case Cersei would send assassins after the new northern queen or that White Walkers were probably assembling as they spoke, but Sansa had been right in her message to her bannermen; the real work could wait until tomorrow. There was time yet to make merry before the real world would come rushing in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is actually the reason why I wanted to write this fic in the first place. Because I'm confident that Jon would want Sansa to rule the North. 
> 
> But I do have more ideas, so more chapters might show up. 
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://unseemingowl.tumblr.com/) until I figure out if I'll leave the hellsite once and for all. Come and say hi.


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